For the detective could read the letter in no other way than that the gentleman—he had been so described—now waiting in the library to see him was under suspicion.
But suspicion of what?
Nick Carter had no idea as to that. Something had gone wrong with the Russian ambassador, which required the services of an expert investigator, and for some reason not given, it had not been deemed advisable to call in the services of the regular Secret Service of the United States Government.
Somebody as yet unknown to the detective, but doubtless a person high in authority in Washington, had recommended Nick Carter to the ambassador; hence the letter.
Chick returned while the detective was turning these things over in his mind, and he raised his eyes expectantly when his first assistant entered the room.
“There is nothing remarkable, or even interesting, about the chap that I can discover,” said Chick, in reply to the interrogative glance. “He is just a plain, common type of the Russian army officer who has been appointed military attaché to this country through influence at court. He is less than thirty years old and more than six feet tall. I should say that he is not overburdened with brains.
“He belongs to the type that gets into no end of trouble through ignorance, stupidity, pride, arrogance, and all that sort of thing, but does not seem malicious at all. He is fair-headed, blue-eyed, rather good-looking—some women would call him handsome—and all in all, is rather a likable chap, I imagine. He ranks as colonel in the Russian army, and the card he sent up to you is not his own, which fact he took pains to explain the minute I entered the library where he is waiting.”
“This card is not his own?” said Nick, picking it up and glancing at it again. He had barely noticed it when Joseph gave it to him.
“No. His name is——”